


and the cost of living is the life you living

by wearealltalesintheend



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7791067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"It goes like this:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A caribbean immigrant, a french, a tailor and a southern boy walk into a bar. Not at the same time, no, Lafayette is late but John is already on his second beer and Hercules is just walking in through the door. Alex doesn't know yet he will end up there at all."</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>or, the one with life as it is, as told by the days of the week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the cost of living is the life you living

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I have no idea of what I'm doing, so I hope you all enjoy this as much as I did when writing. I guess. And thank you Phoebe for reading and conving me this isn't a terrible mess, so yeah, thanks Phoebe!

This is how they meet:

They meet in a rainy Tuesday, cold and miserable and stuck on a holding cell. They meet with broken noses and swelling eyes and bruised hands. They meet because Alexander is _not stupid_ , _he could do it, he could finish it in three years,_ and John is angry and _a bit drunk, yes, but you had to see the other guy, man._

They hit it off right away, yes, the same recklessness that landed them both in jail for the night bringing Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens together, a sense of kinship forged by the dampness of the walls and the rudeness of police officers.

But all things come to an end, and with the end of the night comes morning, and with the morning comes amused friends and disapproving fathers with money and so Alex and John part ways with little more than goodbye.

.

.

.

So, that is how they meet. It's not how they become friends. No, they meet in a Tuesday but it's a Friday when they become friends.

It goes like this:

A caribbean immigrant, a french, a tailor and a southern boy walk into a bar. Not at the same time, no, Lafayette is late but John is already on his second beer and Hercules is just walking in through the door. Alex doesn't know yet he will end up there at all.

So, John arrives first. He drinks his beer and he checks his watch, he waits. He drinks a little more.

Hercules is next. He hurries through the door and takes his seat beside John. They laugh and they drink some more.

Lafayette is the last of the three to come. He is late, but he is french, not british. His people are known for their wine and love not for being on time.

So, a french, a tailor and a southerner had already walked into the bar when the caribbean immigrant arrived. _( He was accompanied by an orphan, like himself, but more on him later. )_

Alexander follows Burr into a bar and he accepts his beer. He scoffs and he argues, he does not smile.

An immigrant, a french, a tailor and a southern boy walk into a bar. It should be the start of a bad joke. It's not.

It's a start.

John spots Aaron Burr first. Or rather, John stumbles into Burr first. Nonetheless, there is John and there is Burr and they become aware of each other. John teases and prods, Aaron patronizes and talks without saying anything at all.

Then Alexander speaks and everything changes.

Names are exchanged and so are numbers. They drink and talk and give speeches. John remembers a wide-eyed kid in a cell. Alexander recalls swelling eyes and bruised ribs.

They smile, and when the night ends and morning comes, well, they part ways but John will add Alex to the group chat later anyway.

.

.

.

That is how they become friends, but it's not how they fall in love. They fall in love a little bit every day.

This is how Alexander Hamilton realizes he just might be in love:

It happens in a sunny Wednesday.

They are walking to class and John is talking but Alexander can't pay attention. The sun is hot on his back and the heat makes him light-headed, dizzy. He looks at John and sees freckles and green eyes and late nights in prison and ink-stained hands, he sees laughter and fire and passion, he sees tired eyes and kind words and smiles, he looks and he sees _John_. It's new and it's exhilariating, it sends a jolt down his spine and he shivers, and it's familiar and Alex thinks it's like one of those paintings you gotta stay far away to recognize the pictures, it was always there, but he just had to back away a bit and _oh, there it is,_ and maybe it doesn't make sense because it's John.

_It's John._

And it makes sense because, really, who else?

John laughs, the sun shines on a Wednesday, they walk to class and Alexander is in love.

.

.

Here's when John Laurens realizes:

It is one of those grey weather days when it happens. It's a grey, cloudy Thursday, it's not cold and it's not hot, it just is.

There should be nothing remarkable about that Thursday, except maybe how dull and unremarkable it was. There shouldn't but there was.

In that very ordinary day John finds himself in Professor Washington's office with a bruised hand and with the man lecturing him for punching Lee.

Washington tells him he's not a maiden in need of defense and John wants to scream he didn't do it for him, _he didn't do it for him._

He did it, he punched Lee until there was blood staining his hands, he did it for Alexander, he did it because Lee started spouting shit and Alex turned to him with fire in his eyes and balled fists and said _I can't_ , so John answered _so let me._

So John went and punched Lee until there was blood in his hands.

Washington sighs and tells him to go home. John thinks he should say something. He walks away.

John punched Lee and he watches the blood wash down the sink. He looks at his hands, there is still blood underneath his fingernails. He scrubs harder, the cuts in his knuckles sting and tear, the blood stains the white porcelain of the sink.

John doesn't hear the door open, close and the footsteps crossing his apartment.

There are hands stopping his. He had been shaking, he notes. He looks up, finds those hazel, wide eyes staring back at him. The hands covering his tighten.

Alexander turns off the faucet, picks up a towel and dry them off. He opens a cabinet, takes out cotton balls and sterilizer. John watches, silent, as Alex starts cleaning the cuts on his hands.

It stings, John notes he's still shaking, wills his hands to still. They don't. Alexander works faster.

When he's finished, Alex only says _look_ and John inspect his fingernails, every line, every crease. The blood is gone, the sink is pristine white again. His hands are still shaking, purple and blue blooming on the knuckles.

He expects Alexander to leave after that. He doesn't. Instead they exit the bathroom and John finds himself sitting on his couch, a mug of tea in his hands and Alexander curled up at his side.

John punched Lee until there was blood in his hands and maybe that's not entirely okay, maybe he is not entirely okay, but he is not alone, he doesn't _have_ to be alone.

Alexander doesn't say thank you, it wouldn't be right and they both know it, but Alexander takes his hand and stills the shaking.

John gives up then, and just accepts the fall. He always loved the myth of Icarus best of all.

.

.

.

They are Alexander and John until they're not. Then, they become _Alexander and John._ It doesn't change much, but here's how it changes:

It's a Sunday and Alexander is graduating soon. He is graduating valedictorian. He is graduating two years earlier. He is graduating and he has a secured job.

He is graduating and he is on top of the world.

He is Alexander Hamilton and he is invencible. He finds his friends at the bar. He doesn't drink, he doesn't need to, he wants to stay sharp, focused, alert, he can do anything right now.

He needs to find John, _John, his John._

Alexander finds John when he comes in half an hour later, Alex smiles, snatches the beer out of his hands, he doesn't want a drunk's answer, he needs John, _John's answer._ So he drags him outside and it's cold as fuck, it's snowing but Alex feels hot, boiling, burning with energy inside.

Alexander drags John outside in that cold, cold Sunday night and he talks, because that's what he does best, he talks until there's no words left, until he poured everything for John to see, he bares his soul, his heart, his _self_ , to John and it says _this is it, this is me, what are you going to do._

John kisses him like he is drowning, like the world is ending in fire and water and chaos and Alex's the only thing keeping him alive.

Alexander Hamilton is graduating, he is invencible, unstopable, and more importantly, he is John's.

.

.

.

It's Tuesday when Miss Maria Reynolds walks into his life.

John wasn't home. Their apartment is cold and empty and quiet. Alexander hates the quiet most of all. John's not home, he is in his night shift _again_ and Alex is tired and cold and lonely.

He should've known that was a bad mix.

There is knocking on the door and Alex sees her the first time, all red dress and red lipstick, curves and silky voice. She says her husband, yes, she married pretty young, that's what pregnancy forces you to do, anyway, her husband hit her and left her alone, the coward that he was.

Alexander gives her his savings, he scorts her to her apartment. He should go back home.

John's not home anyway.

He follows her inside.

It's a Tuesday, John's working the nightshift and the apartment is empty.

Alexander doesn't say no.

.

.

.

Once upon a time, an immigrant and a southern boy walked into a bar. It sounds like the start of bad joke.

Here's the punchline:

" _The charge against me is a connection with one James Reynolds for purposes of improper speculation. My real crime is an amorous connection with his wife for a considerable time with his knowing consent. I had frequent meetings with her, most of them at my own apartment."_

.

.

.

They fall apart on a Monday.

John reads the blog again and again until the words are etched to his mind, until he can recite every paragraph. He reads and pulls at his hair, digs his nails in his palms, tells himself it's real, this is it, this is reality.

John wonders if this is how Alice felt when she fell down the rabbit hole, everything looking the same, but _wrong._

It is all wrong, John thinks, this is not how it was supposed to go. He thinks he should be more angry, maybe trash the apartment, throw his clothes out of the window. Instead he vomits in the toilet.

His phone rings and rings and rings endlessly until he throws it against the wall. He doesn't lock the door when he leaves.

He thinks of going into a bar and picking a fight, he thinks of drowning in alcohol until Alex's face is too blurred in his mind, until the words float away, until he's okay again.

He thinks of breaking Alexander's nose.

The thought of Alex's blood on his hands makes him sick.

He cries, all right. He sits back in the apartment and he fucking cries because his boyfriend cheated on him with the upstairs neighbour, okay, he is entitled to tears and screaming to the walls.

He's glad Alex will be at work for at leats another three hours.

It's Monday and John's home because home isn't home anymore, it's a cold and empty place. It's a void, it's a paradox, it's layers and layers and layers of lies. It's quicksand, pulling him down, the more he struggles, the faster he drowns.

It could be any time after noon when the door opens and Lafayette looks around carefully. John hates the relief in his friend's eyes, he hates because he knows what Lafayette had been expecting when he walked in, he expected blood and gore and devastation. John considers throwing a fit, if only for his friends's sakes.

Lafayette hugs him and asks if he's okay. It's a stupid question, it's a moot question, it's a rethorical question. Lafayette offers to set the apartment on fire. John wants to laugh, he tries to, but it sounds broken, hollow, _wrong._ It turns into a choked sob, he notes.

The clock ticks, John picks up the duffel bag. The cell phone sits broken on the floor. He doesn't lock the door when he leaves.

It's a Monday when they fall apart.

.

.

.

" _Hi, uh, you've reached John Laurens, I'm probably too lazy to pick up, so, uh, leave a message... Unless, it's you Alexander, in that case, well, fuck you."_

Alex hates the quiet, but it's all he's got after the hurricane of his mistakes. He misses John, he calls. He wants to say I'm sorry. He wants to go back in time, he's got it all wrong.

Alex actually picks up a physics book. It gives him a headache, it tells him time travel isn't for him.

He thinks of writing John, he's good at that, writing, he wields words like a sword. He doesn't, look at how that worked for him.

Alex doesn't know what day of the week it is, he used to count the week by John's shifts. Now, he counts it as Go to Work days and Not Work days.

It's sad, he tries to come up with the date, he can't.

It's quiet and Alex hates the quiet, he prays because it fills the silence, empty words for an empty place.

He remembers John with snow in his hair and the universe in his eyes, remembers having his whole life ahead of him and being on top of the world.

Alexander doesn't know what day it is, it's quiet and John hadn't been home in a long time. He falls apart a little bit every day.

.

.

.

Forgiveness, can you imagine? If you do, imagine it like this:

John likes to think he moved on in the way amputees do, with a itch on a phantom limb.

Except, the itch is not a itch, it's a longing ache in his chest, it's a question looming on his mind asking him over and over _what if what if what if._ And of course, except the phantom limb is more of a phantom person, it's the bed that's too small, it's the extra plate he sets if he doesn't pay attention, it's the lack of papers on the floor, it's the typing he hears when he's in the state not fully awake.

John moves on because life moves on even if you are stiching your heart back piece by piece. Maybe that's a bit dramatic, but still.

So, it's Saturday and John is walking down the street.

He doesn't see the man until they collide and fall to the ground.

Then, everything stops.

Of course, _of course,_ he bumps on Alexander of all people. They never sat down to talk, John realizes, and now Alex is in front of him, all messy bun and bags under his eyes, wrinkled shirt and coffee stains.

John ponders his options, tries to sort the jumbled mess of his thoughts. He sees Alex's hand twitch, a jerky movement, almost as if he had been reaching for him but caught himself in time.

Alex wants to go for coffee, he pleads, wide eyes and careful words. John bits his lips, thinks of the empty coffee cup he threw away five minutes ago.

They end up on the coffee shop around the block. It's awkward and Alex does most of the talking, blabbering non stop, saying everything and nothing at all. John sighs, sips his coffee, thinks of college, hands covering his and blood washing down the drain.

There's a pause.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,_ Alex says over and over and it mix with the itch in John's mind saying _what if what if what if._

John tells himself it's the last time they'll meet. It becomes a weekly thing.

It's a different Saturday, it's the same coffee shop. Alex is still blabbering. John sigh, sips his coffee, takes a deep breath.

John reaches across the table, takes his hand.

 

It's Saturday, Alex smiles and John takes his hand.

.

.

.

_"Hi, you've reached John Laurens, I'm probably busy- [ muffled noises, laughter] -shut up, Alexander, I'm trying to- [ laughter ]- anyway, leave a message and maybe I'll call back!"_

_._

_._

_._

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you did it! Now, it would be lovely if you left a comment or kudos, it would make me very happy! But hey, I work with what they gave me, okay.  
> So, thanks for reading and y'all can come talk to me at [my tumblr](http://neverforgetswhatyou-lost.tumblr.com/), really, I'm always down for screaming about Hamilton.


End file.
